


Nothing About Stiles was Casual

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Series: Adara Birthday Celebration [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Stiles, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Derek, Pining Derek Hale, Pining Stiles Stilinski, wounded stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: Stiles wasn’tcasualto Derek. Stiles was...He was comfort, and home, and friendship, and acceptance.He was a soft hand on his shoulder when he was grieving, and a strong set of shoulders beneath his arm when Derek couldn’t stand. He was loyalty, and honour, and bravery the likes of which Derek had never seen before he’d met Stiles.Stiles was his anchor.Stiles was hiseverything.





	Nothing About Stiles was Casual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adara/gifts).



> Happy Birthday [Adara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adara/pseuds/adara)!!!
> 
> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis

It had been entirely too long since Derek had last heard from Stiles.

Not that he was _waiting_ for him to drop in unannounced, bothering him with his incessant chatter and being generally inconsiderate about Derek’s personal space.

Not that he _wanted_ Stiles to come by and lounge on his couch, talk to him about nothing, spread his scent around the loft so that Derek didn’t feel quite so alone when he went to bed at night.

No, Derek didn’t _care_ that Stiles hadn’t come around yet since his return. He didn’t. He honestly, completely, one-hundred percent _didn’t_.

“What the hell is going on?” Derek muttered, grabbing his phone and dialling Stiles’ number. It went to voicemail, like it had been doing for the past few hours.

Not that Derek had been trying him repeatedly or anything.

It was just really unusual for Stiles not to drop by. He knew he and Scott had gone away for a little while since they’d both finished their second year of university and they wanted to treat themselves, but they were back now. Derek knew they were back, because he’d heard the damn Jeep driving down the main strip from his damn fucking loft. The thing was loud, and distinct, and he _knew_ Stiles was back.

Usually Stiles couldn’t go five minutes without bothering Derek, but it had been well over twenty-four hours. This wasn’t normal Stiles behaviour.

This was _abnormal_. This was like, Stiles being possessed or a body-snatcher or controlled against his will levels of abnormal! There was no way Stiles could go, not only twenty-four hours without his phone, but twenty-four hours without at least _once_ bothering Derek.

Even when he and Scott had been on their trip, Stiles had texted him _constantly_. Derek was sure his phone bill would be astronomical, but he hadn’t been able to convince himself to ask him to stop—or bring up the phone bill.

Because while Stiles was _annoying_ , Derek still really looked forward to hearing from him. To having him around. To spending time with him. Derek _liked_ that Stiles bullied his way into his apartment, hung out on the couch doing homework or research, raided all of Derek’s cupboards like he lived there.

One time, Derek had come home from checking the border and had found Stiles passed out in his bed in one of his smaller shirts and loose sweats. Stiles had been _wearing his clothes_. The wolf in him had been going, _yes, yes, **yes**_! But the human in him was going, _oh man, he is way too young for me to be thinking these things about him._

Not that Stiles was young, per se. He was twenty, now. Only three years younger than Derek. And he was very wise, and mature for his age, considering all the shit he’d been put through since he was sixteen. Stiles was definitely not too young mentally, but to Derek...

It was just hard.

Being a Werewolf was hard.

He didn’t know how much Scott had admitted to Stiles about relationships, but they weren’t like human relationships. For Werewolves, they were either casual and meant nothing, or wedding bells serious. There was no in between.

Scott seemed to be intense with Allison, until her passing, and then had latched onto Kira. They were still going strong, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary to, well, anyone.

But Derek knew better. Derek knew that for Scott, Kira was it. He was going to marry her when they were both a little bit older, and she would be his. Because that was how it worked for Werewolves.

Casual, or wedding bells serious.

Stiles wasn’t _casual_ to Derek. Stiles was...

He was comfort, and home, and friendship, and acceptance.

He was a soft hand on his shoulder when he was grieving, and a strong set of shoulders beneath his arm when Derek couldn’t stand. He was loyalty, and honour, and bravery the likes of which Derek had never seen before he’d met Stiles.

Stiles was his anchor.

Stiles was his _everything_.

But Stiles was also only twenty years old. And while he’d been running with wolves since he was sixteen, Derek didn’t want him to know how he felt. Because if he admitted how he felt, he worried Stiles would feel compelled to agree only because he didn’t know how to say no sometimes.

Not to Derek, anyway.

Except when it came to Derek asking him to shut up. Which was fine, really, since he never meant it.

And now he was obsessing about Stiles. Because it had been hours, literal _hours_ since he’d heard from him. Something had to be wrong. Maybe he was being attacked by a Leprechaun or something.

Honestly, when it came to Stiles, nothing really surprised Derek anymore. If anyone was going to get attacked by a Leprechaun, it was him.

“This is stupid.” Derek tossed his phone down after having checked it for a message, despite having _just_ called Stiles moments ago and receiving his voicemail. Still, this was concerning. Super concerning.

Extremely fucking _concerning_!

Derek stood, snatching up his phone, and shoved it into his pocket. He grabbed his leather jacket on his way out the door, yanking it on hastily while descending the stairs after having shut the large sliding door. He knew he was being ridiculous, and Stiles was _fine_ , but the silence was really fucking concerning.

He’d rather just go over, play it off as having hoped Stiles had gotten lost on his way back to Beacon Hills, and then return home knowing he was safe and sound. It was better than just sitting around in his apartment worrying about why Stiles was suddenly off the grid.

Stiles was a Millennial, his phone was super-glued to his hand. The only reason it would be going to voicemail was because it was off or out of battery. If it was off, something was _wrong_. If it was out of battery, something was even _more_ wrong, because Stiles had almost knocked Derek over once in his haste to get to an outlet when his phone was at six percent.

Stiles and phones not working was not a thing. It was not something that existed. Stiles’ phone always worked, and it was always answered when Derek was calling, and there should always be an incessant stream of texts coming in and oh God, Stiles was dead, wasn’t he?! Scott had killed him on their road trip and driven the Jeep back to avoid suspicion!

Derek _definitely_ didn’t speed to Stiles’ house. That would be silly, given he lived with the sheriff. He most certainly did _not_ speed to get there, and he one-hundred percent did _not_ get pulled over by Parrish and told to slow down. That wasn’t a thing that happened.

Though if it _had_ happened, the bright side of being pulled over meant Derek could ask if Stiles was home. And if Parrish _had_ pulled him over, he would’ve confirmed that he was. So at least he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere because Scott was a bad friend. That was good, at least.

Not that this conversation happened, because Derek didn’t get pulled over for the speeding he wasn’t doing, of course not.

It felt like an eternity before he reached the Stilinski house. The cruiser was parked at the curb, which meant the sheriff was home, and the Jeep was sitting in the driveway, covered in dirt and looking a little weathered, but otherwise the same.

Derek parked behind the cruiser, climbing out of the Camaro and slamming the door. His eyes were locked on the window that led to Stiles’ room. The curtains were drawn, which had his gut twisting anxiously. Why were his curtains drawn? Stiles always had them wide open, offering a full view into his bedroom and allowing any monster out to get him to know exactly when he was home!

“He’s just napping,” Derek snapped to himself, because it was that or panic, and if he panicked, he was liable to rip the front door off the house and he felt like the sheriff might not appreciate that very much.

Walking up the porch steps, Derek knocked a little harder than he was sure was necessary, scowling while attempting to keep himself under control. It didn’t take long for the sheriff to answer, looking tired but also alert.

“Derek. What’s going on? What happened?”

It took a few seconds for Derek to realize why the sheriff had suddenly gone into cop mode.

Derek never knocked on the door. He usually just showed up in Stiles’ room and the sheriff walked in to just... _find him_ there. They were always doing research, but that wasn’t the point.

It occurred to Derek that knocking on the door had the man thinking something horrible was going on, like a monster coming to kill the citizens of Beacon Hills.

Derek realized how sad it was that him knocking on a door was so unusual that it had the sheriff on alert.

“I’m here to see Stiles.”

“Anything I need to know about?” the sheriff asked, not having moved from the doorway.

“Nothing pressing. Just needed to ask him about something we were texting about yesterday,” Derek lied.

It wasn’t like he could just _tell_ the _sheriff_ he wanted to see Stiles with his own two eyes to make sure he was okay.

For someone who wasn’t a Werewolf, the sheriff was an expert lie-detector. Derek supposed it came with being a cop. That, or being Stiles’ father.

He just stared at him for a long while, crossing his arms and giving him a scrutinizing look, virtually making it clear that he was well aware of the fact that Derek was lying. He didn’t call him on it verbally, though. He just stepped aside and nodded his head towards the stairs.

Derek thanked him quietly, moving past him and towards the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

When he reached the landing, he could hear Stiles cursing in his room, insisting someone—or, with Stiles, more likely some _thing_ —was being difficult on purpose. Hearing his voice had every tense muscle in his body relax instantly, because Stiles was fine. He was perfectly fine, he was just... he’d been distracted. Maybe he’d gotten so excited recounting his trip with his dad that he’d forgotten Derek even existed. Which was fine, really.

Only not.

Derek didn’t dwell on it though, he just moved forward and pushed open the door, eyes finding Stiles who was still muttering angrily to himself.

The second his eyes landed on him, Derek froze.

Stiles was sitting at his desk, phone flat on the wooden surface and one hand struggling to plug it in, pushing it up against his laptop so he could get the connector in properly. He looked pale, and miserable, but more than anything, he looked frustrated.

“Stupid thing!” Stiles threw the cord for his phone away angrily. It didn’t go far, since the other end was connected to his computer, but it was obvious he was frustrated.

He turned, inhaling deeply, presumably to call out to his dad, and promptly choked and began to cough at the sight of Derek in his doorway.

“Jesus! Derek! Warn a guy!” He reached up to rub at his chest with his free hand.

With his _only_ hand.

Because the other arm was in a cast.

Stiles had one arm encased in plaster, hanging in a sling, making it virtually unusable.

“What happened?” Derek asked, voice quieter than he’d intended. Then, louder, “Stiles, what _happened_?!”

“What?” Stiles blinked at him, then looked down at his arm. “Oh, right, that. It’s all good, don’t worry about it. Turns out horses and Stiles don’t mix. Fell off my horse within the first ten minutes of our ride and landed wrong. Thank God for Scott, really, because if he hadn’t been there to suck the pain, I probably wouldn’t have made it to the hospital without sobbing like a baby.” He grinned at Derek.

Evidently he wasn’t aware of how _horrendous_ this was. How Derek’s brain had short-circuited at the sight of the blue plaster encasing his arm.

Stiles was injured.

Stiles was _injured_!

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Derek demanded, moving forward quickly and then hovering awkwardly, because he was scared to grab at Stiles to shake him in case he hurt his arm. “Stiles, why didn’t you _call_?!”

Stiles just stared at him, confused. “Uh, my phone’s dead? Dad’s being a bit of a dick, he finds this whole thing hilarious. I can’t...” Stiles let out a frustrated sigh and motioned the charger. “I’ve been trying to plug it in, but it’s hard with one hand. Figures when I can use _both_ hands, I have no problem plugging it in with one hand, but as soon as I officially lose the use of my second hand, plugging it in one-handed is impossible.”

“Stiles,” Derek insisted, sitting in his other chair, eyes on his cast. “Why didn’t you _tell me_ as soon as it happened? Why didn’t—Scott should’ve texted me! Or _called_!”

Stiles frowned slightly. “Why? What were you going to do from Beacon Hills? We were in Utah when it happened, were you going to drive out to Utah?”

“Maybe!”

Stiles let out a laugh, then seemed to read Derek’s expression and the laugh died out. “Oh shit, you’re serious.”

“Stiles, you should’ve _told_ me!”

Stiles’ mouth opened, but no words came out. It was like he didn’t know _what_ to say. And the longer they sat there, the more Derek realized _why_.

Presumably the moment it had happened, the first call out had been to Stiles’ father. Maybe the next call had gone to Melissa, given she was a nurse and all. But aside from that, who else would Scott and Stiles need to call? Stiles and Derek were friends, sure, but it wasn’t like Stiles’ immediate thought after being injured was, “Hey, you know who should be told I broke my arm? Derek. Derek should definitely be notified of this.”

“Sorry,” Stiles finally said after the silence stretched on for too long. “I didn’t... I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. Calling you, I mean. As for texting, well...” Stiles looked down at his broken arm in answer before looking back at Derek.

“I just—” Derek cut himself off, unsure of what to say. “I’m always there when you get hurt,” he said quietly. “I always—I _know_ when you’re injured. I know how bad it is. I know what’s going on and how to help you. I guess I’m just...”

“Surprised?” Stiles offered when Derek didn’t continue.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t know why you’re surprised I got hurt, I’m kind of a walking disaster, most of the time.” Stiles half-smiled at that.

Derek tried to make a joke back about it, but he was still reeling a little bit. Stiles had never been hurt without his knowledge. Not since they’d met. Every time something happened, Derek was aware of it. Whether it was a text, or a call, or he was present at the time.

But all those injuries were Supernatural related. Derek acknowledged that he was usually notified because it coincided with something bad in town. Stiles would call and be like, “Hey, so, I just lost a round with a Dragon. A fucking _Dragon_ , Derek. They exist. I have burns in places I shouldn’t have burns right now.”

He wasn’t telling Derek about his injury, he was telling Derek about the problem that needed solving and happened to end up resulting in an injury for him. Stiles didn’t actually ever tell Derek when he was hurt. Not on purpose, anyway.

Derek reached out slowly with one hand. Stiles made a face, probably preemptively anticipating pain, but Derek made sure he was careful. He lightly closed his fingers around Stiles’ on his injured arm, his hand poking out of the sling, and began to pull at his pain.

It hurt. The ache was so deep for Derek that it felt like it was in his bones. He supposed it made sense, considering the break, but still.

Stiles just stared at the black lines while they snaked up Derek’s arm. After a few seconds, he wiggled his fingers, and Derek let his hand go. The pain left his arm, but he could still feel it in his bones a little bit. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be human, to feel this pain constantly.

“Next time,” he said softly, “tell me when you’re injured. And not because something is chasing you, or because you got your ass handed to you by a monster you need me to fight off for you. Tell me you’re injured because I care, and I want to know when you need me.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said softly.

Derek nodded once, then stood and moved around Stiles. He grabbed at his charger, then plugged it into the base of his phone. The screen remained dark for a few seconds before the apple logo appeared, but nothing further. It had probably been dead for too long to load the home screen.

“You have Whatsapp, right?” Derek asked.

“Yeah.”

“You can send voice messages through that. Should be easier than texting.”

“Oh.” Stiles turned back to his phone, grinning. “I forgot about that! Why would you tell me that? Now I’m just gonna send whiny messages you can _hear_ instead of just read.” He turned to smirk at Derek, clearly pleased.

Derek couldn’t find it in him to say anything negative. “I don’t mind when you talk to me,” he admitted softly.

The smirk fell off Stiles’ face and Derek heard his heart rate spike. “Oh,” he said quietly.

Before he could think on it too much, Derek reached out and lightly touched Stiles’ cheek. “Be careful, okay? Let your arm heal up before you try anything heroic.”

Stiles just stared at him, heart pounding faster in his chest.

Derek dropped his hand, fingers tingling slightly, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Stiles had reached out to grab at Derek’s shirt, yanking him back before he could take more than a step. “Uh, I was—did you wanna stick around? Dad’s leaving for work in like, an hour, and I’ll be by myself and I might need...” Stiles trailed off.

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I might need you to open a jar for me,” Stiles blurted out.

“A jar?” Derek asked, amused.

“I am jar-opening impaired right now!” Stiles insisted, raising his injured arm slightly. “I might need you.”

“I suppose I could stick around,” Derek said, eyes lowering to Stiles’ lips unconsciously. Stiles licked at them, and when Derek’s gaze shot back up, he saw Stiles’ eyes were focussed on _his_ lips.

Holy shit.

Holy _fucking_ shit!

“For jar-opening purposes,” Derek blurted out. “You know, in case of jars.”

“Right,” Stiles agreed, eyes still on Derek’s lips. “For the jars.”

Derek doubted there would be any jars in his future.

But Stiles. Oh, Stiles he would have in his future.

For as long as he could have him.

Derek would deny it to the grave, but he _may_ have started humming ‘I can hear the bells’ from _Hairspray_ on his way down the stairs to fetch Stiles’ dinner two hours later.

Because it was casual or wedding bells.

And with Stiles, nothing had ever been casual.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Hairspray (c) Thomas Meehan
> 
> Come chill with me on [Tumblr](https://isthatbloodonhisshirt.tumblr.com/).  
> (If it still exists by the time you read this lol)


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